


Red Poppies

by acidtonguejenny



Series: The Language of Flowers [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9330965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidtonguejenny/pseuds/acidtonguejenny
Summary: "If you’re so impatient, you can try walks to help things along. Spices. Intimacy.”“Intima-” Chamomile stopped. He colored. “I thought you couldn’t.”-Contains lots of fluff, corrected misconceptions, and a good ol' Italian induction.4/18: Revised! New content!





	

**Author's Note:**

> :D

“Certainly it can’t be  _ much _ longer, can it?” Chamomile said. 

He didn’t mean to whine, really, for it was so unattractive, but he was rather tired of being as big and heavy as barrell. A barrell with a sore back, frequent and urgent need for the facilities, that  _ usually _ liked to sleep on his stomach. 

Fortunately, Golden Longeather was entertained, rather than offended. She thrived on the petty sufferings of others; an odd trait in a physician. 

She pulled his shirt down his belly. “Surely not,” She agreed. “Perhaps a week more. Of course, there are things one might do to encourage the child, such as walks, or certain spices...There’s a tea made from raspberry leaf—”

“I know it well,” said Chamomile, rueful. He’d drank a lot of Maggie Brownbird’s tea. One might say too much—he and Lark certainly did. They had both grown to dislike the scent of raspberries, and had rather gleefully poured hot water on his bush a few weeks into his pregnancy. 

Golden’s lips twitched. “And there’s always intimacy.” She finished.

“Intima—” Chamomile stopped. He colored. “I thought you couldn’t...” He cleared his throat.

Golden elected not to meet him in the middle, blinking back at him patiently. 

“Couldn’t, what?” She asked, bland.

“Where is Corte?” Chamomile grumbled. “He has bedside manner.”

“Putting it to use, making house calls.” Golden said, cheerfully, and at last took pity on him. “Yes, it is safe to lay with your husband. Knotting is to be avoided, and you are of course to immediately halt anything that feels uncomfortable, but otherwise I encourage it. In some mothers it may induce labor.” 

Chamomile’s eyes grew wide. “Truly?” He squeaked.

Golden nodded. 

“Then, Doctor,” Chamomile said, beginning the arduous process of getting to his feet. “I am going home.”

“Give my regards to Lark.” She said pleasantly. Chamomile pulled his scarf over his nose to hide his blush as he stepped out into the street.

Pregnancy had not been hard for Chamomile. Only a few times did he suffer from the nausea that he had been taught to expect. He ate all of his and his neighbors’ pickled goods, and spent two months perpetually on the verge of tears, but he was happy. Excited.

Terrified, yes, but excited.

Lark endeavored to be an anchor, especially during those teary months. It was an endearing if rather fruitless effort, as he’d spent most of Chamomile’s gestation utterly beside himself and only pretending not to be.

The rain that had threatened all morning finally broke through as Chamomile made it out of town. He pulled his scarf over his hair and huddled deeper into his collar. Unfortunately there wasn’t much to be done about his pace, as he was already at peak waddle. 

He met Lark coming down the hill as he began his ascent. He carried two umbrellas, neither of them extended. 

Chamomile laughed at this hopelessness. “Lark,” He called over the rain, caught between fondness and exasperation. “You daft man. Use one of them!”

Lark made a face that may have meant he could not make out the words, or just have equally that he’d forgotten the purpose of an umbrella as it could benefit him too. He opened one as they reached each other, and held it out over Chamomile’s head. 

“I came to meet you,” Lark said unnecessarily. Water ran from his hair and into his eyes, droplets sticking to his lashes.

Chamomile took the neglected umbrella from him, intending to open it, but changed his mind. Much better to huddle close, put his arm through Lark’s elbow and lay his head on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Chamomile said, nudging Lark’s wet shirt collar with his nose and smiling.

Lark looked down with that face of delighted bewilderment Chamomile caught him making at least once a day, over breakfast sometimes, or as they sat quietly by the fire in the evening. It stirred up butterflies in his belly every time.

“What did Longfeather say?” Lark asked. He was well acquainted with Chamomile’s impatience, the longer his pregnancy drew on.

They set off for home at a sedate pace. Rain pattered pleasantly on the umbrella, and the wind was down. There was a nip in the air, but only enough to stave off humidity, and Lark was warm enough that Chamomile did not feel it. A beautiful, gray day. 

Rivulets of rainwater rolling down his neck wet his shirt collar, and his elbow, protruding beyond the umbrella’s circle of protection, was soaked. Chamomile, hiding a coy smile, found he couldn’t be bothered.

“Walks.” He said.

“Walks.” Lark repeated thoughtfully. “Was there more?”

“Spicy foods.” Chamomile said, and darkly, “The tea that shall not be named.”

Lark chuckled. 

“And,” Chamomile assured himself that none of their neighbors were out in the wet. “sex.”

“Oh, really?” Lark said, and Chamomile squeezed closer at his tone, which was warm and teasing.

“Yes.” He said. “Golden says it may...encourage...proceedings.”

“Proceedings,” Lark echoed with a laugh.

Chamomile pinched him, earning another chortle. “Ah,” he glanced around again, saw no one, and still lowered his voice. “No knotting.”

“Understood.” Lark said, now deeply amused.

They left the umbrellas just inside the door on the mat, and their shoes next to them. Lark built the fire in the bedroom while Chamomile rummaged for twine and fashioned a drying line over the stove. He leaned over Lark to do so, bumping Lark with his belly and wincing as his back complained.

Clothes were hastily thrown over the line, neither minding when Lark’s trousers slid off, for they were already squirreled away beneath the quilt. They shook water out of their ears in between laughing kisses, until their dark space was damp and steamy and they were forced to come out for air.

Chamomile was squeezing out his curls when Lark touched his side. 

“Here, love. On your back.” He said, and Chamomile obliged, holding Lark’s offered arm tightly as he lay back. Lark fit his hands inside his knees and raised them up and out.

Chamomile, busy arranging a pillow beneath him, did not notice him wiggling down the bed with intent, said “Oh!” at the first billow of breath. He moaned at the touch that followed, sensitive and earnest. 

Too long, it had been too long. It had taken him no time at all to become accustomed to this closeness, and they had not suspended their play without regret.

“Bless Golden Longfeather,” He happily sighed, and felt Lark’s snort on his inner thigh, and the tongue that followed.

Lark gave him his first gasping peak in short order, frisking him with one hand while the other held him open to cool air and delving tongue. Chamomile bit his lip when he came, straining with the force of it. Lark waited as it shook him, his breath hitting Chamomile’s pulsing flesh, his thumb stroking the side of his round belly.

Chamomile’s heart still raced when he, once more, ducked his head. 

Lark’s touches this time were lighter, circling his most sensitive flesh. There were sucking kisses on his innermost thighs, the barest brush of nose and fleeting strokes of tongue, until Chamomile whimpered and tilted his hips after every touch, his opening writhing around Lark’s thick fingers. 

Lark was infuriatingly stubborn at times. Chamomile wanted to trap him with his knees, to tangle fingers in wet hair and force the pace, but he was too unwieldy, with the flexibility of a board. To move his hips as instinct demanded exhausted him, and he grew warm and sweaty quickly, panting from exertion as much as excitement. 

It did not go noticed for long. Lark held him fast by the hips, his grip mindful but firm. So restrained, Chamomile could only twitch futilely and whine, frustrated.

His second orgasm came on with wonderful, inevitable slowness, coaxed from him with unerring patience. His head fell back and his mouth opened, but he was silent as sensation washed outwards from his groin. His heart thudded alarmingly, and he sobbed as he finally crested the wave.

“Lark!”

Gentling noises came from the beyond his great belly. Hands stroked his sides and legs, the fingers of one wet with his fluids and smearing. 

Muscles in his midsection spasmed. Chamomile imagined their child popping out right then and laughed breathlessly. That wasn’t  _ quite _ what he wanted.

“...so gorgeous and gentle, everything I could ever wished…” Lark was still murmuring comforting nonsense as he rose to his knees and came close. 

His cock poked Chamomile, blunt and hard and the tip of it drooling, and he eased his legs wider, waiting for that wonderful push, but it didn’t come. He raised himself up on his elbows and looked at Lark curiously.

Lark was pondering Chamomile’s middle like a riddle. “I’m trying to think of how best to do this,” he confessed, and Chamomile realized his point. They had suspended much of their lovemaking before he’d grown quite so large

“On top?” Lark hazarded. 

Chamomile, still breathing a little heavily, raised a doubtful brow. 

“I don’t think I can,” He said with a lopsided smile. 

Lark bit his lip, eyes traveling appreciatively over Chamomile, whose chest and belly rose with every breath. “Suppose not.” He said thickly. “Perhaps on your side? Let me help.”

It took a few minutes to find a comfortable arrangement, and all of their pillows were called to battle, but they settled Chamomile with a cushion beneath his head and another beneath his knee, which was bent. 

Lark nestled at his back, and covered Chamomile’s hitched leg with his own. His long thigh was hot and pleasantly heavy, the hairs of it thick but soft. Chamomile felt whiskers at his nape as Lark kissed him and giggled, ticklish. 

Lark grasped himself and rubbed his head along Chamomile’s seam. He dipped in and out, groaning as he did and provoking them both. 

Chamomile sighed when he finally sank inside, and chuckled at the long, shuddering groan that answered him. 

Lark pressed his face into Chamomile’s hair and breathed, for a moment. His organ throbbed inside, put off.

“Happy?” Chamomile asked. He was drowsy, and felt as if he both floated and were weighed down, heavy with contentment and child and love.

“So very much,” said Lark faintly, petting the taunt skin of his stomach, his hand cupped against the curve. His hips rolled, and he began to move in slow, measured thrusts.

Chamomile was familiar with that pace; he loved to fall asleep as Lark held him so gently. He put his hand over Lark’s and wove their fingers together, and closed his eyes with a yawn.

“Incorrigible,” said Lark fondly.

“I enjoy lovemaking and I enjoy sleeping.” Said Chamomile smugly. “Why should I not enjoy them together?”

“Your logic is unassailable.” Lark said, his affected loftiness spoiled by a tremulous thread in his voice. 

Chamomile squeezed to communication his pleasure, and grinned when Lark swore. 

*

Of course, no one could say what was only timing and what was due to enthusiastic effort, but not four days later Lark bid their neighbor bring Golden Longfeather.

He held Chamomile’s hand and wiped his face with a cool rag, and fetched when Golden and Corte were both occupied. Over Chamomile’s pained grunts could be heard the sound of Mavis Silverscales greeting well-wishes at the door and receiving their gifts, and beyond that Addicus Blackearth and Elise Honeywell in the kitchen, preparing meals for the next few days. 

During a lapse, Chamomile faced him and said, “Are they still as red as beets?”

“Redder,” said Lark.

“If the little one delays much longer, one might actually work up the nerve to speak.” Said Golden. 

“Wouldn’t that be sweet?” said Corte, standing up with a basin of steaming water. “New life and new love.”

Chamomile made a noise, visibly rallying himself for another contraction. “Sadly, I will not stand for any avoidable delays. The lovebirds are very much on their own.”

“Steady on,” said Golden. “And when it feels right,  _ push _ .”

Chamomile did, straining and flushed, and he gasped when he stopped. 

“Please,” he said to Lark. “Talk about something, anything. Distract me.”

Lark squeezed the hand that was squeezing his back. “We never did decide what to name the baby.”

Chamomile took up the thread instantly. It was familiar discussion, one that occasionally grew into argument. 

“Aster.” He said instantly.

“Iris,” said Lark, just as quickly.

“Another one, Chamomile.” warned Golden.

“Flowers, is it?” Said Corte. “What about Chrysanthemum?”

“Chrysanthemum? Hmm.” Said Lark thoughtfully. “Chrys Greenthroat. Cham, what do you think?”

“It has potential.” Chamomile said sullenly. “But...ah! I still like Aster.”

“I’ll make you a deal, my love.” Said Lark. “If we have two children, you may have an Aster, and I shall have an Iris.”

“Done.” said Chamomile. “Since you won’t just let me have what I want, when I suffer for you so.”

Lark kissed his temple soundly.

“Push, Cham.” Said Golden. 


End file.
